


Almost Always Aware

by MarkofDark



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Angst, Implications of violence, Other, Pre-Hope's Peak, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4367216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarkofDark/pseuds/MarkofDark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just seeing yourself, your face, your body, everything reminds you of how much you hate yourself.</p>
<p>Or, a day in the life of Touko Fukawa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Always Aware

You wake up far from home. There’s blood on your hands and a fresh slit on your thigh. You don’t want to look around. You don’t want to see what you—no, what _she_ did. You try to ignore the stench of decaying flesh as you push yourself off the ground and start the trek back home; although, you’re not quite sure where you are. It seems she’s made quite the distance this time. However it looms on your conscious for however long you’re gone; which must have been an extensive among of time. You swear you can see the dimmest light of the sunrise.

Home is a very light term you’re placing on your place of living. It’s not nearly as humble and perfect as everyone else’s seem to be. And in terms of relatability it seems much darker than it should. You’re used to it though; and that’s what scares you. Because you know this isn’t normal but there’s nothing you can do about it and trying to defy what has become your normal would only cause more pain.

You make it past the front door before your parents wake up (which is a miracle in itself, as when you see the clock on the microwave it reads six in the morning). In all honesty you’re not even sure how you managed to make it back here. You quietly slip upstairs to your bedroom where you close the door and lock it.

Now confined inside the walls of your prison, you try to hide all of the evidence that you had left and actually murdered another person. No, not you. You did nothing, you tell yourself this as you shove your school uniform in the hamper and press the lid on it firmly. At this point in time you can’t even find safety in the comfort of your novels; not with the stink of blood on your hands. It would be okay to go was them, right…? Yes, of course. If one of your parents wake up you’ll tell them you just needed to use the washroom.

You slip on something comfortable and head for the bathroom downstairs. There’s something unsettling about the mirror that sits right in front of the sink. Every time you visit this room you make sure not to make eye contact with yourself. You hate reminding yourself how disgusting you look. But the flowing water from the faucet is comforting. You dip your hands under it with soap in your palm, scrubbing attentively to make sure nothing is left of your predicament. And then you continue a little longer just to be sure.

When you’re all cleaned up (mostly, at least), your eyes accidentally stare right into the mirror, and you feel like the breath has been sucked from your body. Just seeing yourself, your face, your body, everything reminds you of how much you hate yourself. And you remember what you did, what _you did_ — ** _NO!_**

It takes all of the willpower you’re not sure you even possess to not smash your fist into your reflection. You’re losing your bearings, you realize, and it’s a quick dash back upstairs to your bedroom without double checking if all the blood was washed away from the sink.

There’s nothing to stop the ever-crushing self-hate rushing through your being. It’s been that way since you were little, having learned at that time how little you were thought of. It was always brought back to how much you were unlikable—how the boy from Shikoku really hated you, how you were locked in that closet for three days without food—you still wonder in the back of your mind how someone, even you, could be so detested. But of course, it’s your fault. What other explanation is there? You’re a disgrace and everyone knows it.

But there is one thing that isn’t your fault. Her. Of course her creation is not your doing. It’s theirs, your parents. If they had just seen how needy you were. No, scratch that, it sounds too desperate. But… weren’t you? It makes an aching pain in your chest to remember those times. When you cried and nobody came. When you fell and there was no one in sight to help you. All of it led to her creation.

There are hardly words to describe how much you detest her. And despite this, you also wish you were like her. In the sense that yes, you realize you a quite possible the most pathetic being on the entire planet. And her outgoing features, no matter how maniacal they are, you wish you had the ability to make those your own, even scarcely. The only good that came out of her was being able to temporarily live as if there was not a damn to be given. And she doesn’t. She never did. You hate that about her too.

Your mind keeps going back to her. And in an attempt to have something else occupying some of the empty cracks of your mind, you look towards your work desk. Your hands run over the various items there— your favorite pen, a rough draft of your latest novel (ugh, this damned thing, why would anyone want to read this trash anyway?), various schoolbooks that you actually look through for knowledge’s sake, and…

Carefully, you pick up a slip of parchment. You had received it in the mail a couple of weeks ago, and when you found it you had this obligatory feeling of relief come over you. It’s your acceptance letter to Hope’s Peak Academy. Though, wonder if it’ll even be worth it. But it _is_ a prestigious school, and you’ll surely home your skills as a novelist. Hopefully the other students won’t think you’re too much of a burden.

Right now you find it very taxing to even have that in your thoughts. With your current half-occupation as a serial, it seems highly unlikely that you’ll be able to keep that a secret. Unless you can learn to stop those annoying urges to sneeze. You’ll just have to be extra careful then; even though you’re already too careful as it is.

At this time your body starts to react lethargically to your current standing position. Your shoulders slump over more and your eyes feel heavy again. What time was it when you arrived home again? Oh, it probably doesn’t matter anyway. You sluggishly make your way over to bed and nestle in. There’s some comfort of being safely wrapped in between the covers with the light on, so you can see everything. But you know once you close your eyes you’ll be taken to a much less hospitable place.

But you can’t hold up anymore. Your eyes close of their own accord, and you can already feel the darkness coming over you that will soon transform in nightmares.


End file.
